Save Me?
by Phantomdeath
Summary: While working on a triggering case, Tony falls back into old habits. Will Gibbs be able to help? Hurt!Tony Parental!Gibbs Oneshot TW: self-harm (I do not own NCIS)


Tony tried to not flinch as McGee put the crime scene photos on the plasma. An admiral's daughter had been found dead by their housekeeper early this morning. Her wrists had been deeply cut and Ducky confirmed she bled to death.

"The angle is wrong," Tony muttered again. He'd tried to bring it up at the scene, but no one paid him any attention.

Gibbs looked over with mild interest, waiting for the senior field agent to go on.

"They're too perfect. She was right-handed. Look at these scars," he gestured to her left arm. "These are all angled in towards the right side of her body; but the fresh wound isn't- she wouldn't've cut like that." Bishop and McGee cast him concerned glances; he did his best to ignore them.

Ducky walked up behind the team. "I see Anthony addressed what I came up here to tell you. I was too hasty in my assumption they were self-inflicted. The past scarring suggests the Admiral's daughter had been self-harming for quite a few years. But this cut, as Anthony pointed out, was made by someone who was left-handed, standing behind the victim. The mark on her left arm is quite similar."

Tony was hardly listening; cold sweat coated his skin as his mind raced. He needed to get out of there – and fast.

"Murder, Duck?"

"Most certainly."

"We know anyone with a motive?" Gibbs asked the team.

"Housekeeper found her," McGee pointed out.

"Go. Take DiNozzo."

Tony froze, jarred from his thoughts. "Can he bring Bishop? There's something I need to take care of."

Gibbs eyed him skeptically, but nodded.

Tony grabbed his things and headed for the stairs. He took them two at a time, nearly tripping on the way to his car. The world blurred past and before he knew it, he was home.

Tony dropped his weapon in its box and fed Kate and Ziva some fish flakes. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the couch. His hands shook as he braced himself against the kitchen counter. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back his sleeves and traced the old, raised scars that crisscrossed the undersides of his forearms. Tony thought back to that first night in his third boarding school.

_This one was preppier than the first two; they allowed him a razor as they expected their students to be cleanly shaven. He disassembled it and held the blade between two fingers. Someone knocked on the bathroom door and he hissed an annoyed 'occupied' as his mind drifted to earlier that day:_

_Senior begrudgingly drove him the three hours to campus. He told Tony that this school was his last shot. Disappointment radiated off of the older man in waves._

_Tony stared out the window, pretending he didn't care. He was angry. Sick of never being enough for anyone, least of all his father. He'd grown to hate everything he'd become. All he wanted was his father's approval. It didn't matter what he did or didn't do- it would never be enough for Senior._

_The razor glinted in the bathroom fluorescence. He touched the sharp edge to his unmarred wrist. The blue veins pulsed beneath it, almost begging to be slit open. He swallowed hard as he brought the blade down and blood bubbled in the gash. His stomach churned as he looked at what he had done. Tony was about to cast aside the metal strip, but he noticed a new sensation. Relief. He didn't understand, but he didn't question it as he made more lines in his skin. The feeling washed over him and he watched the bright red drops mark paths down his arm before plinking on the porcelain sink_.

He snapped out of the memory and fumbled through a drawer for a minute before wrapping shaking fingers around the hilt of a paring knife. He pressed the flat of the blade against the scars and sighed. The metal was cool against his skin. He longed to feel that same calm again- that blissful stillness between the rush of adrenaline and the concluding stab of guilt. _I'm still not enough. I'm not enough for Senior, for McGee, for Abby…for Gibbs… I wasn't enough for Ziva. Ziva, _he paused, knowing she would hate him for what he was about to do. "I'm sorry." His whisper felt too loud in the silence.

Tony broke skin and the blood leaked up just as it had for all those years before. He waited for the relief to wash over him, but it didn't come. Taking a deep breath, he sliced decidedly harder. Blood ran down his arm in thick ropes. It dripped down the cabinets and pooled on the floor. His expensive shoes left smeared, maroon prints to the couch. He sat and turned the knife over in his fingers. _Nine years clean down the drain_. Guilt bloomed in his chest, but he wasn't ready to lose the chance for calm.

"One more," he mumbled to the empty room. He slit another line. It was by far the deepest. Blood poured from the cut and panic rose in his chest as he inspected the wound. Tony saw the yellow-white of muscle and gagged as he staggered through the bathroom door. Cradling his arm to his chest, he fell to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet. Tony slumped to the floor, his vision fading in and out. He heard his phone ringing, but it sounded miles away as he let himself plunge into the darkness.

"Either of you seen DiNozzo?"

"No," McGee and Bishop said simultaneously.

"Do you want me to call him?" Tim asked quietly. He had a bad feeling about Tony's abrupt disappearance.

"I want you to find him," Gibbs snapped.

McGee typed furiously on his computer for a minute. "Got him. His phone's at his apartment." He looked up, worried. "Did he say he was leaving early?"

Gibbs was already halfway to the elevator.

Ellie and Tim exchanged a look but got back to work, trusting Gibbs would update them should anything arise.

Gibbs floored it to Tony's place. His truck thundered down the road, but it didn't feel fast enough. He was kicking himself; he should've known this would be a hard case for DiNozzo. His stomach flipped as he recalled the first time he'd seen Tony's scars.

_It was during DiNozzo's first year at NCIS. Gibbs walked by the gym and saw Tony jogging laps in a sweat-soaked hoodie. "You can take that off," he said._

_The agent stopped and stood in front of his boss, breathing hard. "I'm fine. It's good, actually...Lots of people purposely try to sweat more when working out...There's science about it… you should check it out sometime" He shakily dropped to a knee. _

_"I'm not gonna marry you, DiNozzo."_

_Tony smiled but was too dizzy to speak. He fell back and leaned against the wall, eyes closed._

_Gibbs grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt. _

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Getting this thing off of you." _

_"No, leave it," he said sharply._

_Gibbs ignored him, yanking the dripping, thick fabric over his agent's head. _

_Tony sat, defeated, before his boss in a gray undershirt. Sweat glistened on his skin as he tried to take deep breaths. His arms hung limply at his sides; the white scars shining under the lights. _

_"The hell, DiNozzo?" He asked, starting at the agent's arms. The newest scars were clearly years old, but Gibbs didn't need Duck to tell him they were self-inflicted. _

_"Guess I can't hide 'em anymore, huh?" He asked weakly. _

_Gibbs knelt across from him. His initial shock and anger were fading. Concern slithered in their place. He made a small gesture to the scars and whispered, "Why?"_

_Tony sighed. "I never meant for it to get that bad. It was my third boarding school."_

_The marine waited patiently as pain flashed across his agent's face._

"_I got thrown out of the last two for fighting. And I was nothin' but a headache to my dad." He tried to stop the words, but they just kept coming. "I decided I was done. I wasn't gonna start another fight and get kicked out again. Wasn't even through my first night and I had three weeks' detention 'cause my jackass roommate hit me in the eye. That night I locked myself in the bathroom. I saw the razor and I just had the impulse to... to see what happened if I took out the blade and..." he looked down at his left arm. "Yeah." _

_Gibbs listened as the proud, vain man broke down before him. Though he knew about the agent's troubled past, he'd never pegged Tony as someone to resort to self-harm. His chest hurt watching the tears glisten in his agent's eyes. _

_"But I haven't done it in a long time. And I'm not suicidal, Boss. I don't want to die." He paused before whispering, "Anymore."_

Gibbs hoped that was still true as he pulled up at Tony's apartment. His truck was barely in park before he was jogging to the door. He let himself in and stopped. The odor of fresh blood hung in the air. Gibbs instinctually grabbed his weapon, keeping it low at his side. "Tony?" He saw the trail leading from the kitchen to the couch and followed it to the bathroom. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the stench of vomit as he hit the doorway. DiNozzo was a mess, laying in his own blood, fresh puke splattered in and around the toilet.

"Aw, hell, Tony," he whispered, dropping to his knees. Gibbs balled up a towel and pressed it against his agent's bleeding arm. He gently tapped Tony's cheek with a free hand.

"Boss?" Tony's gaze traveled to the towel pressed to his arm. The memory of seeing his muscle flashed across his thoughts. His stomach flipped and he turned toward the toilet. He wasn't fast enough and bile mixed with blood on the floor.

Gibbs held Tony as he continued to dry-heave. He rubbed his back and waited for his agent's breathing to even out.

"Sorry," Tony choked as he leaned back against the wall. He pressed the towel harder to his arm, trying to ignore the burning pain. His eyes were closed tight, he didn't want to see the look on his boss's face.

Gibbs stared down at Tony. "Arm's pretty bad," he said evenly.

"Saw muscle."

"Yep."

"Puked." Tony was shaking, hard. He was cold from the blood loss, but his nerves were the source of the organ-quaking shake.

"I noticed."

"Doesn't bother me at crime scenes."

"It's different when it's your own." Gibbs tied another towel around Tony's arm, slowing the bleeding. "Can you stand?"

"Boss?"

"I'm not leavin' you in a puddle of blood and vomit with a cut the size of California. C'mon." He pulled Tony to his feet, steadying him with an arm around his waist. The agent leaned heavily against his side, breathing hard with the motion. "You okay?"

Tony nodded. "No hospital." His head was swimming, but he knew he didn't want to be in the ER or a psych ward. He didn't want to die—but until this moment, with Gibbs's arm around him, he hadn't been sure he wanted to live.

"Okay." He led Tony out to the truck, making sure he was seat-belted in before closing the door. Gibbs hoped he could patch Tony up –the gashes were pretty deep. The marine debated calling Ducky, but decided to wait until he got the agent's wounds clean enough to see what he was dealing with.

Tony slumped against the door, desperately fighting to keep his eyes open. He managed to focus on the blood slowly leaking onto his pants. His fingers shook as he pressed them against his forearm, the pain helping him stay conscious.

"Talk to me," Gibbs said, looking at Tony. He was keeping the truck at a steady 15 over, but it felt like they were crawling—DiNozzo was going down-hill fast. "C'mon, Tony," he pressed when the younger man didn't respond. His gut told him to call Duck—now.

"On it, boss. I'm just a little tired."

"Can't sleep yet, DiNozzo."

"Yeah, big case, Boss. Dead girl. Didn't actually slit her own wrists. Not like me. I did mine. Deep. Too deep." He paused, furrowing his brow, "Am I dead?"

"Nope." He noticed the blood was starting to dry on some of the cuts but was still leaking steadily from the deepest. "Keep talkin," he prompted.

"Dunno what to say. Tired, boss." He put more pressure on his arm but made the mistake of looking at it. His stomach churned angrily and he felt the bile rise in his throat. Forcing it down, he turned his attention to the marine's hands, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"Don't ruin my upholstery, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, but his heart wasn't in it. If puking in his truck kept the agent alive, fine.

Tony's jumbled thoughts came slowly and through thick fog. Memories of cutting all blended together, coming faster and faster— the relief melding with his guilt—the looks on peoples' faces when they saw the angry slashes or the puckered white skin of an old scar. He focused on Gibbs's hands again. The agent knew it had to be bad – the wheel looked seconds from cracking in his boss's grasp.

Gibbs's mind swirled with 'what-ifs. _What if I can't help him – fix him – save him? _He didn't have it in him to lose another agent – another child. Pain curled up in his heart as fear settled deep in his bones. It was so soft, Gibbs nearly missed it.

"I'm sorry"

"Why're ya sorry, DiNozzo?" He needed to keep his agent talking but his curiosity spiked.

"I'm not enough. I'm sorry I'm not enough."

The statement sent a sharp ache through his chest. Gibbs set his jaw. "You are enough," he said and pulled into his driveway. Gibbs turned off the truck and walked over to the passenger side. "Gotta walk now, DiNozzo," he said, opening the door.

Tony slid off the seat. His knees gave out as his feet connected with the concrete and Tony pitched forward.

Gibbs caught his agent, holding him tightly against his chest. "You okay?"

Tony tightened his grip on the marine, attempting to pull himself up. It was too hard. "Rule 28," he mumbled.

As gently as he could, Gibbs threw Tony over his shoulder and brought him inside. He laid him on the couch. "Stay."

Tony's eyelids were heavy and he let them sink closed. The darkness was pure bliss. He sighed, letting himself sink deeper and deeper into the comfort of the dark. It embraced him in its warmth, inviting him to melt into its silent softness. Burning pain brought him back to himself. He hissed.

Gibbs wordlessly poured more sterilizer in the cuts. As the peroxide bubbled, blood cleared out of the wounds. The worst gash looked about an inch and a half deep. The yellow-white of muscle was a stark contrast to the bright red blood still creeping to the surface. Seeing muscle wasn't new to Gibbs, but with his patient being Tony, it made his skin crawl. Carefully, he dabbed the wounds dry, and pulled them together with butterfly bandages. He wrapped gauze around the agent's arm. "I'm calling Duck," he said, hoping his patch-up job would hold well enough until the ME arrived.

Tony tried to protest, but a glare from the marine shut him up. He knew it was Ducky or the hospital. The former was better. Safer. Known. Another wave of guilt and shame slithered into his chest as he thought about another man he looked up to seeing him like this.

Gibbs sat in a chair facing the couch. He studied the man before him: from Tony's sunken, serious eyes that had lost their light, across the deep worry-lines in his distraught face, down to his hands shaking at his sides. _What happened to you, Tony? _The guilt slithering around his stomach traveled to his chest. _I should've done something_. "Why'd ya do it?"

He'd been waiting for the question, but it still threw him off. Of course he'd be blunt, it's Gibbs. "I don't know," he answered honestly. The last time he'd cut was when Kate died. He needed to make the pain something he knew how to manage. He could fix torn skin – he didn't know how to put a butterfly bandage on his thoughts. Today, seeing the photos triggered an ingrained longing to feel it again. His inadequacy flooded though him, the voices of his past reminded him of all his failures – every time he had disappointed his father, disappointed Gibbs. The long-quelled need to cut re-surfaced tenfold. He ached for the surge of adrenaline right before the blade broke flesh, for the release as his blood ran across his skin. The marine gave him a hard stare. "I... boss, I went on auto-pilot. I just knew I had to get out of there; I felt like I couldn't breathe and then the next thing I knew, I was home with a paring knife in my hand." He hung his head, staring at his shoes. "I should've put it down and called. I should've..." Tony glanced at the bandaging around his arm. He felt sick again. "I'm sorry."

Gibbs was frustrated DiNozzo hadn't called him; but he knew how stubborn and proud his agent was. _Pride that could've killed him_. He grit his teeth and looked at Tony. The droop of his shoulders and downcast eyes made him seem like a child awaiting punishment. Gibbs' anger melted; his agent didn't need a lecture- not now. He crossed the room and gently put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "Rule 6."

Tony leaned into his boss's hand, trying to focus on its reassuring warmth and strength. He knew he didn't deserve the kindness. _He should've taken me to a hospital and left me. _Guilt closed his throat and tears prickled in his eyes. He blinked them away, but not before Gibbs noticed.

A knock at the door saved Tony from any question his boss my have asked, but brought a volley of inquiries he'd rather not have entertained.

"Anthony," Dr. Mallard greeted softly, approaching the couch with Gibbs in tow.

He struggled to sit, but gave up and settled for a weak smile. "Hey, Doc."

Ducky forced a reassuring smile. "Jethro sounded quite concerned on the phone. And given your current state, I can see why." He'd known about the agent's past—having conducted a fair number of DiNozzo's physicals and patch-up jobs here and there; but he was shaken to his core.

Gibbs shot him a look before heading downstairs, giving Tony and the ME privacy.

Tony felt the loss of the marine's presence, the dark cloud seemed to get darker and closer in his absence. He shuddered.

"Are you cold?"

"Not really… Maybe a little from blood loss," he admitted softly.

Ducky unwrapped the gauze and closely inspected the agent's wounds. Deep gashes marred the patchwork of old scars. His stomach somersaulted as he gingerly undid a few of the butterfly bandages.

Tony tried to gauge Ducky's reaction, but the doctor had an impressive poker face.

Dr. Mallard conducted the rest of his examination quickly and unnervingly quietly—hardly speaking more than to ask the occasional question. He wanted to delve more deeply into the psychological roots of Tony's issues, but the agent was giving single-word answers.

After concluding his assessment, Ducky retreated to the basement. He paused in the middle of the stairs, taking a moment to collect himself. The sight of living, lacerated muscle still vividly

"What do you think?" Gibbs asked, not looking up from his boat.

"I stitched a few of Anthony's abrasions, though, there wasn't much unmarried skin to work with."

"I asked what you thought."

"Indeed. Jethro, I think he needs help. The deepest cut was... had you not arrived when you did, I believe he would've been on one of my tables tomorrow morning."

Gibbs kept sanding as though the doctor hadn't just confirmed his fear. His heart sank, the guilt and the pain of what could have been twisted in his chest.

"I think," Dr. Mallard continued, "he should start working with a therapist. I've a good friend and colleague in mind, if I may be so bold. I could give her a call in the morning, with your blessing, of course."

"Not me you have to convince."

"He'll do it if you tell him to," Ducky pressed, anxious to have Tony in the care of a professional as soon as possible.

"Thanks, Duck."

Once the medical examiner left, Gibbs went up to check on Tony. The agent was sleeping peacefully on the couch, his bandaged arm cradled tightly against his chest. The marine sat on the floor beside him. He closed his eyes and every doubt he had in himself, every fear of losing Tony all crashed into him. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to another child. His earlier anger rushed back, a defense against the pain. He forced it down, instead letting himself feel the loss—the loss of Kelly, Kate, Ziva, nearly Tony… the list went on. Gibbs indulged in the agony until it threatened to swallow him. He opened his eyes and looked at the agent again.

"Tony?" Gibbs whispered. The agent remained silent and he continued, "I'm damn glad you're alive." He paused as his throat tightened. "I need ya, Tony. You've got my six and I'm tryin' t'have yours." His chest physically ached when he studied the dressing on Tony's arm. Gibbs knew it was a battle the agent chose to fight alone; but he didn't know how much longer Tony could keep it up. His gut told him the younger man wouldn't survive many more spirals. The image of Tony's body in autopsy smacked into him again. The agent stirred, pulling Gibbs from his thoughts.

"I knew you'd save me, boss. Always do," he mumbled, half asleep.

Gibbs sighed, gently squeezing Tony's shoulder. _Always try_.


End file.
